


saturday night

by d8night



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Drinking, M/M, Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d8night/pseuds/d8night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we discover why Arthur Kirkland isn't a fan of drinking in public.</p>
            </blockquote>





	saturday night

**Author's Note:**

> French translations are at the end of the piece!

This is the first time in a long time that Alfred has insisted that Arthur go drinking with him. (It might be important to say that Alfred has been begging him for months, and that Arthur hasn’t budged from his answer (which was, is, and always will be a solid “NO”). 

Until tonight, of course.

Arthur has always been proud of his ability to refuse Alfred, what with the American’s pouting lips and puppy dog eyes. But somehow— _somehow_ —those wide blue eyes had gotten him, and so he presently found himself standing in line for Alfred’s favorite bar.

“I don’t know why you didn’t want to come, Artie,” Alfred says, a bounce in his voice as he leans against Arthur’s shoulder and grins. “This place is my jam! The best jam, if I’m bein’ honest with ya.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and frowns at his companion. “You know full-well what happens when I go out drinking,” he says, annoyance clearly audible in his voice “And don’t call me ‘Artie;’ my name is that of a proper gentleman, not some cultureless heathen.”

Alfred makes a face and sticks out his tongue at Arthur, nudging Arthur’s shoulder with his own and mumbling, “Party pooper.”

It doesn’t take them long to get in, or for Alfred to start greeting his many, many bar friends. He sprints away when he sees a group of people he knows, leaving Arthur alone, and feeling quite lonely.

He finds himself wandering to the bar itself and ordering a beer, just to have something in his hand. When it arrives, Arthur stares at the bottle and mutters, “This won’t end well,” before tossing it back and drinking deeply from it.

“What won’t end well, if you don’t mind me asking?” a soothing voice asks from seemingly nowhere, and Arthur jumps about five feet, spilling his beer all over the front of his vest.

He looks over his shoulder and finds himself staring into the bright blue eyes of one Francis Bonnefoy. He scoffs and crosses his arms, rolling his eyes. “It has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

Francis takes a step closer to the Englishman, setting his own drink on the bar counter. “Whatever you say, _mon rosbif. Mais qu’est-ce que c’est?_ I thought you detested drinking.”

“In public,” Arthur mutters disdainfully. Having worked in the same company for years meant many business parties and suddenly knowing your co-workers’ secrets.

“You do not want to be here, _n’est-ce pas?_ ” Francis says, leaning on the bar and looking at Arthur with concern.

“Of course not!” the Englishman exclaims, throwing his hands up. “Alfred—the loud American with the glasses, you know the one—dragged me along, and I was stupid enough to go with him.” He slaps a hand to his forehead. “I’d much rather be home, reading Shakespeare and drinking Earl Grey.”

Francis regards the man in front of him curiously. He’s wiry and skinny, though not much shorter than Francis, and he looks damn good in casual dress clothes, even if there is beer now staining his vest. “ _Mais oui,_ Alfred is…something, isn’t he?” He picks up his drink and sips, cool blue eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. “Well, you’re here already. Why not have a little fun?”

“And how would I do that?” Arthur asks, his eyes watching the Frenchman cautiously. 

“ _Comme ça,_ ” Francis says, and orders Arthur another drink.

\---

It is now much later, and both men are much, _much_ drunker. They’re seated at a table, not even bothering with attempting to stand anywhere (they’ve already tried, draping themselves over each other before falling to the ground).

Francis has just finished telling Arthur about his childhood, waving his hands in extravagant gestures, and now Arthur can’t seem to take his eyes off of him. There isn’t much difference between a drunk Francis and a sober one (though his legs do wobble some, and he talks a lot more), but Arthur just cannot look away from his as he chatters on.

(Arthur’s type of drunkenness is far worse: his tongue turns to lead and he slurs his words, he’s louder than he ever is sober, he drools—the list goes on and on.)

Francis knows that Arthur is staring at him, and he grins at the thought. He’d be the last to admit anything positive about the indignant Brit, but he would say that Arthur’s eyes while drunk are something worthwhile to see.

“I’ve talked far too much _pour le moment, mon lapin,_ you go ahead,” Francis says, waving his hand and taking another sip of his wine.

“Now what do I ‘ave to say…that you couldn’t say a lot fancier?” Arthur slurs, pointing a finger at Francis. “And Frenchier. With your…your weird words, how do you even say a thing.”

Francis chuckles and moves his chair closer to Arthur; at this distance, he can clearly smell the beer on his breath. “ _Alors, c’est vrai,_ my language flows a lot easier than the harsh words of yours, but…” He pauses, placing a hand over Arthur’s. “I do like hearing you speak, Arthur.”

At the sudden touch, Arthur looks up, straining to see Francis through his hazy vision. Francis’s eyes are like beacons to the Brit, drawing him in and causing the word around them to slip away. Arthur’s eyes slowly move toward Francis’s lips, and he finds himself licking his own. Without missing a beat, he grabs the front of Francis’s shirt and pulls him forward, pressing his lips against those of the Frenchman’s.

Francis is shocked for almost three seconds before eagerly kissing him back, his hands quickly cupping Arthur’s face. Arthur has already shoved his tongue into Francis’s open mouth, his fingers curled in the other man’s hair. He nips and sucks at Francis’s lips, pulling him closer and closer with each passing second.

They break away from each other, both breathless, lips hot and swollen. Arthur stares at Francis, his eyes glazed over and hazy.

“Well,” Francis says, lazily running his fingers through Arthur’s hair, “I think I have discovered the exact reason why you don’t drink in public.”

Arthur shakes his head, but stop almost immediately; he can feel the headache coming already. “Don’t you dare mention…that to anyone, I swear, I’ll—”

“ _Ne t’inquiète pas, mon copain,_ ” Francis says, chuckling at the drunken Englishman beside him. “I won’t tell a soul.”

\---

They leave the bar with each other’s phone numbers. Francis makes Arthur take a cab home, seeing him off to make sure he’ll be safe.

A few minutes after the taxi leaves, Alfred rushes out, cheeks pink from the heat inside the bar. “Hey, yo!” he yells, spotting Francis on the curb. “Have you seen Arthur? I lost him, uh…hours ago, I guess.”

Francis looks at Alfred, a secretive smile on his face. “Your friend got, as you might say, ‘completely trashed,’ and I sent him home.”

“Aw, man, are you serious?” Alfred gapes at him, open-mouthed. “He was my ride home!” He grumbles and walks away, muttering about designated drivers and tipsy heroes.

Francis chuckles and pulls out his phone, pulling up a stolen picture he had taken of Arthur. He can’t tell if the red in his cheeks is from his drunkenness or from their time spent together, but Francis can guarantee that if Arthur does ever see it, he will squawk at him for hours, and deny that it ever happened.

He decides then and there not to show it to Arthur, not for a long time, at least, and to call him sometime the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

>  _mon rosbif_ \- my roast beef  
>  _mais qu’est-ce que c’est?_ \- but what is this?  
>  _n’est-ce pas?_ \- right?; is that so?  
>  _mais oui_ \- of course; but of course  
>  _comme ça_ \- like this  
>  _pour le moment_ \- for the moment  
>  _mon lapin_ \- my rabbit  
>  _alors_ \- then; a sound French people make, really  
>  _c’est vrai_ \- that’s true  
>  _ne t’inquiète pas_ \- don’t worry  
>  _mon copain_ \- my friend; my boyfriend


End file.
